Chapter 3
Miles
I shouldn’t like the sight of her tears, but I do.
I like it when girls cry. They run down her flushed cheeks in fat, wet drops, glistening under the sick yellow bulb above, and every single one makes me feel something I’m not supposed to.
She looks at me as if I’m the devil himself, and maybe I am, because the more she shakes and sobs, the harder it gets to drag my eyes away.
And I definitely should not have liked how much I spanked her as much as I did.
The sound of my palm connecting with her ass still rings in my ears, sharp, filthy, wrong.
Her little skirt had ridden up from being tossed over my shoulder, pleats flaring and exposing the tiniest strip of her cheerleading uniform.
Navy and white. Shiny fabric clinging to her ass like it was sewn on.
And beneath it, a flash of pale skin that shouldn’t be carved into my memory but is anyway.
Her chest heaves with every panicked breath, heavy breasts straining against the fitted top, the logo of Pointe High stretched across them like a taunt.
She doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me, what the sight of her writhing in that uniform does to my already fucked-up brain.
I tell myself it’s just biology, a reaction I can’t control, but deep down I know better.
I wish I had her mouth. That perfect, glossy mouth that never fucking stops moving.
I wish I had her warm lips wrapped around my cock instead of spitting curses and begging for freedom.
The image hits me so vividly I almost groan out loud, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from going insane.
And then my phone vibrates.
The screen lights up, flashing a name I cannot ignore.
My gut clenches. I pull away, forcing the haze from my mind.
Duty before desire. Always. I glance over my shoulder at her, tied and trembling, her green eyes wide and wet.
Then I look at Rico—the tattooed asshole in the vest still hovering, still watching her like she’s prey he can’t wait to sink his teeth into.
“Keep an eye on her,” I tell him, voice firm, no room for argument. “And don’t do anything stupid.”
His lips curl, tongue darting out to lick at them, and my blood pressure spikes.
I know that look. That hungry, twitchy look.
Fuck.
I bite down hard on my jaw, fighting every instinct screaming at me to tear his throat out. The possessive streak in me is rising, ugly and undeniable, and I can’t figure out if it’s because of her or because I just hate the thought of anyone stepping into my territory.
Territory. Jesus Christ. She’s not mine. She’s a job. She’s leverage. That’s it.
I turn my back, force myself to stride away until I’m far enough that she can’t hear me. I lift the phone to my ear.
“Victor,” I answer, voice low.
“How is it going with the girl?” His tone is calm, unbothered, the same as always.
I rake a hand over my head. “She’s secure.”
“Good.” He exhales, and I can almost hear the cigarette between his lips. “Get comfortable. Retrieval of the funds is taking longer than expected. You’ll have to stay the night guarding her.”
Stay the night. Christ.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll handle it.”
“You gotten rid of her car yet?”
My teeth clench. “Not yet.”
“Work on it,” he says sharply. “The last thing we need is someone finding it before we’re ready. Understand?”
“Yeah.” My voice is tight. “I understand.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, staring at the cracked cement beneath my boots.
I tell myself I can walk away. I tell myself she doesn’t matter, that my uncle gave the order and that’s the end of the discussion.
But every time I picture leaving her in there, tied up, helpless, with that bastard hovering over her like a vulture, my stomach turns.
Possessive. That’s what I am. Possessive and fucked-up, because the bile rises in my throat at the thought of that asshole laying a single hand on her.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and pull it out again almost instantly, scrolling to Jamie’s name. If I can’t leave, I need backup.
The call connects. Loud music bursts through the speaker, thumping bass and rowdy shouts in the background. The Crest. Of course he would be at his family’s bar.
“Yo,” Jamie answers, his voice slightly slurred, amusement dripping from every syllable. “What’s up, brother?”
“I need a favor.”
“Oh?” He laughs. “What kind of favor? The kind that makes me money, or the kind that gets me arrested?”
“Neither.” My voice is curt. “I can’t explain it over the phone.”
“Cryptic as always. Give me something at least.”
“I’ll text you the address,” I say, ignoring his jabs. “And pick up dinner for me and then I will really owe you one. Chipotle, maybe. Get something for yourself too.”
“Chipotle? Damn, you’re spoiling me.” He chuckles, then asks, “What do you want?”
“Chicken bowl. Double meat. Extra guac.” I exhale, picturing it clearly because the normality of it helps ground me. “And a steak burrito. Large chips. Salsa on the side.”
“Done. I can be there in an hour.”
“Good.” I hang up before he can ask more questions.
The silence swallows me again, heavy and suffocating.
I debate going back inside, back to the room where the green-eyed girl won’t fucking shut up, where her fruity scent clings to the air, sweet and maddening, crawling under my skin. She smells like peaches or maybe strawberries, something ripe and soft, and the memory of it makes my palms sweat.
But if I go back in now, I’ll lose control.
So I don’t.
Instead, I drop into the chair outside, pull out my laptop, and open the school curriculum I’ve been ignoring for weeks.
It’s ridiculous—here I am in the middle of a kidnapping, guarding a girl tied to a chair, and I’m scrolling through syllabi and assignments like some honor student.
But maybe that’s the only way to keep myself sane.
Next semester: International Economics. Advanced Calculus. A group project on global trade policy. Christ. I almost laugh. How the fuck am I supposed to focus on trade deficits when there’s a girl inside with tear-streaked cheeks and a mouth I can’t stop thinking about?
I scroll deeper, reading lists, deadlines, trying to convince myself this matters more. My future. My plans. The clean, structured life I was supposed to have before all of this.
But every few seconds my mind drifts back to her.
The way her chest rises and falls under that cheer top. The gloss of her lips when she curses me. The fire in her eyes even when she’s sobbing.
I curse under my breath and slam the laptop shut.
This is bad. So fucking bad.
And I know that tonight is going to test me.
Forty-five minutes later, the night is ripped open by bass that rattles through the cracked warehouse windows, obscene and obnoxious.
Jamie never does quiet, never arrives anywhere without announcing himself like he’s a goddamn parade.
The tires squeal, headlights cut across the concrete, and I hear the door slam before the music can even fade.
I grit my teeth. “Turn it down,” I bark before he’s even inside, the words echoing across the space.
Jamie grins like the smug bastard he is, blond hair falling into his eyes, the reek of beer and trouble clinging to him like cologne. He doesn’t bother apologizing. He never does.
Rico comes out then, drawn by the noise.
“Jamie,” Rico says with a grin that looks more like a sneer. “Didn’t know you were invited to the party.”
Jamie claps him on the shoulder like they’re best friends. “Didn’t know you were either, Rico.”
I step in before it can escalate. The last thing I need is Jamie baiting him. “Take the food,” I order Rico, shoving the Chipotle bag into his hands.
Rico digs through it, already pulling out the burrito I meant for him. He tears the foil back with his teeth, grease and steam spilling out. “This one’s mine.” He takes a messy bite, rice falling down his chin. “The girl can have the chips and salsa if she wants.”
She’ll probably refuse anyway, too proud to accept anything from us.
Jamie grabs my arm then, pulling me toward the side exit with more force than necessary. His voice drops, losing its usual joking lilt. “What the fuck are you doing here, Miles?”
I don’t look at him. I keep walking, boots crunching on the gravel. “On assignment.”
Jamie snorts. “Assignment, my ass. You’re babysitting. You always were Uncle Victor’s little lapdog.”
I shove him back lightly, not enough to start a fight, just enough to shut him up. “Drop it. Just help me with the car.”
He rolls his eyes but follows.
The sight of it waiting under the dim glow of the streetlight punches me in the gut harder than I expect. Red, sleek lines and glossy paint, sitting there like it belongs in another world. A good world. Not this one.
Her car.
Her pride and joy.
And I rammed into it without hesitation, denting the bumper and twisting the frame just enough to make it limp. My chest aches in a way I don’t want to examine.
Jamie whistles low. “Sick ride. Shame you’ve got to dump it.”
I run my palm along the roof, my reflection fractured in the shine. “Plan is to strip it first. Anything worth something comes with us. Then we sink it.”
Jamie grins like a wolf. “Finally, something fun.”
We pop the trunk first. The music still blares faintly from the cracked speakers inside, some godawful bubblegum pop that makes me wince.
“What the hell is that noise?” Jamie groans, reaching in to shut it off. “Sounds like a cat in heat.”
“Her music,” I mutter, scanning the inside.
The scent hits me next, soft and sweet, curling into my lungs.
Cherries. Not peaches. Not strawberries.
Cherries. A bottle of perfume tucked neatly against the side, the cap loose so it leaks just enough to haunt me.
Beside it, a tube of cherry lip gloss, the same she was wearing earlier, the shine of it still seared into my brain when she cursed me out.